


TKO

by slasher48



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Season/Series 09, Angelic Possession, Demonic Possession, Demonization of a Female Demon, Episode: s01e11 Scarecrow, Episode: s02e14 Born Under a Bad Sign, Episode: s05e10 Abandon All Hope..., Episode: s06e20 The Man Who Would Be King, Episode: s08e17 Goodbye Stranger, F/M, Gen, M/M, Past Abuse, Past Sexual Assault, Season/Series 09 Spoilers, Slurs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-06
Updated: 2014-05-06
Packaged: 2018-01-23 18:51:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1575890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slasher48/pseuds/slasher48
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I guess she got that Apocalypse she wanted so much,” he mumbles to himself, drained in more ways than one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. First Draft: Hard Feelings

**Author's Note:**

> Warning for mentions of Meg's sexual assaults and abuse.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean’s agreement comes out gruff. “Yeah, can’t help it when manipulative bitches manipulate. It’s what they do, we’re just chess pieces.”

He swipes at her reflexively and only  _just_  recognizes her, the grace his vessel’s rejecting making her True Form flicker in and out behind the face of her new vessel in his visual capabilities. He hasn’t seen her in ages, but he’d never forget the only demon he’s ever seen  _intimately_  close. He’s seen cracks and burrows in her smoky figure he’s never seen of another.

“Meg?” He asks, surprised but not as much as he would have expected to be. “But—your cause was, and I thought you wanted—” He’s never been entirely sure  _what_  she wanted apart from the obvious unrelenting sexual aspect, but he had been somewhat convinced it wasn’t  _this_ , at least.

She shrugs, smirks with teeth stained with the blood of a fellow penitent he’d just watched her finish.

“Sorry, dollface, I lied.” The betrayal must show in some way on his vessel’s features, because she makes a face of mock (he gets that now) sympathy. “C’mon,  _demon_ , remember? No hard feelings?”

Sam rolls his eyes in Dean’s direction and pays for it with a blue-haired demon’s hard blow to his arm. It’s  _definitely_  sprained, but on the bright side, he was right, he and Dean both, for not telling Castiel about the “unicorn” bit. Of  _course_  it’d been a lie.

Castiel’s more than annoyed but resigned, he’s  _furious_ , and he steps forward, hand raised. Dean dodges a body builder demon straight out of the NHL trying to get to him as Meg sighs overexaggeratedly when the grace to smite her falters, and stabs toward his vessel, and he twirls his blade into his hand instead, one skill for another. They parry and thrust, stepping through the bloodbath so that minions are pulling panicked out of their way, light seeping through cuts she manages; sharp, angry hisses that expel saliva her only acknowledgment of her far worse wounds.

He wants to kill her for being what feels like the millionth person to deceive him into oblivious trust. He wants to watch the shock of light and smoke that will be her demise, and he’d do  _anything_. Dean has to pull him back when the Winchesters retreat, and good thing, because his stolen grace is in grave danger after that. The Impala peels out of the driveway of that warehouse just as the demons, including Meg, spill through the doors, and Castiel sighs as he watches her satisfied grin disappear through the passenger’s side window. Without the anger, he’s just…listless. Resigned. Depressed.

“I guess she got that Apocalypse she wanted so much,” he mumbles to himself, drained in more ways than one. He forgets anyone can hear him, until Dean brakes so suddenly that only what’s left of his grace keeps him from pitching forward.

Dean’s face is stern where he’s turned to look at him, “Wait, hold up, what?”

Castiel looks away, at his lap, where his hands rest, one upon the cut on his leg and the other upon the cut on his arm. “Meg and I were discussing something about the pizz—”

Dean cuts him off sharply. “Yeah, skip the part where she’s trying to dip her fingers in angel dust.”

He squints, confused and put off by Dean’s tone. “…Right. We were talking, and she intimated to me that we should both miss the simplicity of the Apocalypse.”

Dean’s head drops heavily on the seat with a slight thud. “So much for Token Evil Teammate. Fucking bitch, should’ve known she’d screw us ’s soon as look at us.”

Castiel glares, because whether or not she’d lied, there  _had_  been reasons to trust her. “She helped us a great deal, Dean.”

Dean waves his hand dismissively. “She leashed you like a guard dog, Cas, don’t act like it was some big change of heart.”

Castiel quiets, though he’s sure he’s still frowning. He  _had_  been uncomfortable with her self-description as “kinda good”. Hadn’t wanted to agree, had felt after his own misgivings about his own goodness he didn’t have the right to disagree.

Sam leans forward and pats Castiel’s shoulder, reaching with his good arm to offer some comfort. “No worries, buddy, she got me too at first. Could give Crowley a run for his money.”

Dean turns the key, seeing as they’re clearly staying still for a bit longer. “She could out-lie Crowley any day of the week, Sam, she was even  _you_  once. And fooled Jo.” His jaw tics, and Sam looks sorrowful, when Castiel spins around too fluidly for his usual angelic stiffness. (Dean’s ire increases. Grace must be leaking, and  _fuck_  that’s worrisome.)

“She  _possessed_  you,” he says, startled by this information he’d not yet heard, and Sam nods—grimaces.

“That’s putting it mildly, man. She took a joyride fit for scary stories you tell at camp.”

Castiel’s brow furrows, he doesn’t quite get the significance but he imagines it’s immense. His eyes are wider, his mind working overtime. “She might have done the same to me when I was human. Like Hael. I suppose that changes things, for you two…” And explains much of the confusing distrust he’d never fully grasped during the reign of the Leviathan.

Dean grunts. “For you too, if that grace don’t hold.”

At that, they sober, silent and nervous, and Dean turns the car back on just to have something to do, turns off the side of the road and slips into the groove of driving Baby.

Nearly to the bunker, Cas startles the shit out of him with a sudden, “I’m sorry.”

He sees Sam look up in the rearview mirror when he does. The sleepy giant clearly isn’t feeling quite as unnerved by the grace situation or as unhinged by the Meg memories as he is.

“For what this time, Cas?” Sam slurs, and Cas clearly flinches. Dean glares at Sam. They  _talked_  about this, and he  _hates_  being the  _mature_  one who has to remind Sam sometimes.

“For trusting her,” Cas says, his voice heavy and upset, flicking a glance at Dean and then Sam before looking at his lap again. “I should have asked you about her, at least. Friends do that.”

Sam sighs. “Dude, you were in a bad way, nobody blames you. We trusted  _Crowley_  once upon an Apocalypse.”

Dean doesn’t get time to chastise him before Cas smiles humorlessly. “Yes, well, I made the mistake with both of them. I make the mistake with  _everyone_  and it gets you hurt so often. I apologize.”

Dean won’t admit it but he tears up a little. They’ve talked it over by now, he and Cas, they’ve gone over and over the urgency and the guilt and the anger and the unforgivable and the amends. When Dean says “You did the best you could,” it’s not empty now. It’s truth.

Sam glances at Dean knowingly. “We forgive you, Cas. Both of us.” he says firmly, and Castiel looks at Dean imploringly, like Dean will be the one to agree with  _him_  instead of Sam.

Dean’s agreement comes out gruff. “Yeah, can’t help it when manipulative bitches manipulate. It’s what they do, we’re just chess pieces.”

And then it’s Castiel’s turn, to be choked up, to shove that away (it’s harder since he was human).

He wants to say something inspiring, but he’s overcome, so he focuses on changing the radio station and turning it up a bit.

He chooses a song called “TKO”. It’s  _pop_  and Dean not only lets him, he laughs at the appropriateness, so that even Sam  _has_  to join in cos the way he  _sounds_  gasping for air is.

It speaks volumes. Castiel smiles a little to himself the whole way home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [AU where Meg lives and Cas and Dean and Sam end up in a fray with she, Abaddon, and their minions, while Crowley’s in hiding as a mess of a drunken human blood addict.]


	2. AR of AU: Unicorns Don't Exist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You seem to be in more than high spirits,” he says, deadpan, reaching for his blade in case he has to use it. She glares at him, and then the expression—upon her vessel and inside it—breaks into a delighted laugh.

He shoves her away, but she bounces back like she’s magically confined to his space.

“I saved you, y’know. Just like you saved me.’” She whispers, twang dampened, softened. He clenches his jaw, feeling comforted by the fact that at least she gives him a  _reason_  for the worrying way his grace has been acting inside his body. That’s how she got him before—that softness. But he’s seen the other side, watched her cut down a friend in Abaddon’s stead, and realizes now what a fool he’s been.

“What’ve I saved you from?” He wonders, curious and nothing else. He left her to Crowley’s inevitable wrath and the questionable guardianship of Sam with less feeling than he probably should have felt; he failed to protect her. So what exactly does she mean?

“From myself.” She swipes at him, nearly gets a hold of his jaw before he shakes her off—roiling grace or not, she won’t get to take bodily advantage a second time. Not even for the sake of his victory before Dean’s eyes, not again.

“You seem to be in more than high spirits,” he says, deadpan, reaching for his blade in case he has to use it. She glares at him, and then the expression—upon her vessel and inside it—breaks into a delighted laugh.

“Well,  _yeah_. Lucifer, take two, without the Shakespearean tragic end—it’s like a dreamland, Clarence, candy clouds drenched in blood. I could  _sing_ , really.” What’s the modern turn of phrase? Deja vu. That must be the feeling right now; they’ve had this conversation before, but he’s not so helpless now. She might escape unburned but she won’t escape unscathed.

“Then rescuing you is a pointless expectation; I don’t really understand.” He stares firmly into her dark eyes to drive the point home that he won’t be playing savior any longer, wondering why she—master of anonymity and escape—chose eyes almost the same color as her former vessel’s. She doesn’t really seem the type to be sentimental, like Anna; or himself, if he’s being honest, if he’s recalling fitting into a teenage body and looking upon his ravaged vessel through inherited blue eyes, desperate even then to be back behind Jimmy’s pained expression.

“You still  _did_  though, angel,” she says, taunting him with what would be gratitude from anyone else. “I owe you a soft crust pizza and a hard ride, if I’m remembering correctly.” Smirking, she pushes him back to the wall. He clutches his blade and stares at her, contemplating.

“You owe me nothing. And I owe you even less.” Moving too fast for any creature still human to see or stall, he slips from beneath her intent hold and stabs toward her with the blade, only  _barely_  missing as she throws energy at him that would debilitate a human in moments. His blade calls to the other side of the room where she wanted to throw it but his hold is much stronger than her desperate grope. It’s a relief, being able to feel this healthy—this powerful— when he knows the grace he’s stolen has spent much time rebelling recently. But he wishes he didn’t have to fight.

“We can end this, Clarence,” she says, slicing at his shoulder with her own stolen blade, clashing with his as it automatically rises to block the blow. She’s sensed his reluctance; so  _foolish_ he feels now, seeing how well she knows, wondering what she saw in him in Colorado. He counters her promise with a violent strike and manages to take some of her new vessel’s hair. It doesn’t feel like the accomplishment it should.

“But we can’t. You and Abaddon are planning something, and I won’t let you hurt Dean. Or Sam. Nothing can end this but death.” Reinvigorated with that conviction, he manages to slice her open at the hip. She bleeds and he cannot bring himself to smile; doesn’t even pause as he goes for her again.

“You could join us, kid,” she murmurs, and once upon a time he remembers that tone being soothing—feeling like an anchor. Now he’s disgusted by it, wonders if cutting her tongue would cease the sound. Shaking his head sharply, he grips the blade tighter and does not let up. She’ll die or he’ll die; allying with demons is no longer an option he considers (and in fact is one he actively avoids).

“ _Never_ ,” he growls, and they fight, expert on their feet and debilitated in equal amounts, she by her poisonously insidious affection, he by her far more adept grasp on what he’ll do minute by minute. Bricks in the warehouse crumble and when he slams against the wall and dodges the point of her blade, there are cracks left behind.

“Aw, c’mon, Clarence. Heard you cheated the King out of a deal way back when—we should be no sweat compared to that.  _If_  we’d double cross you, that is. Abby’s a woman of her word, much more than that  _dick_.” Parrying and thrusting, they toe across the floor. Castiel feigns considering the offer long enough to tear through the fabric covering her chest and bleed her there; too long, because she manages to dislodge his blade halfway across the room.

Pain wrestles with survival inside him, as his grace fails him when he calls for the blade but he ducks away from her finishing blow. He cannot be killed—he’s needed. Should he live  _just_ long enough, he can at least shield Dean the best he’s able from Abaddon’s cruelty. Staying alive for that is paramount.

Rolling in a way somewhat foreign to him, he dives nearer his blade and  _just_  avoids hers. “I’m no longer any demon’s plaything, Meg. I know how you work, what you seek, who you blame. It can’t be me, not this time.”

“But without you, angel face, the King’s downfall just won’t be  _near_  as fun,” she says, pouting her vessel’s lips, pinning him to the floor with her blade like a stake through his coat’s collar. He stares up at her and marvels at once feeling anything more than grim about this creature. Watching him, she starts to smile—perhaps thinking she’s convinced him—and he snags her leg with a shoe, trips her down as Crowley has before. Manages to move.

“If either of us should live that long,  _fun_  will be the last thing we’ll be having,” he says with dull resignation, calling for and clutching his blade once again as she gets to her feet. He isn’t lying; Crowley’s defeat will more than likely come by rivers of blood and paths of crushed bones. He may lose himself, may lose his family, may lose the  _Winchesters_.

Fun won’t be probable in that situation.

“Cas!” he hears behind him and turns around just long enough at Dean’s voice to suffer a sharp cut in his distraction. He elbows her jaw, knocks her over for a moment, and strides over to Dean without a wince.

“We have to go, Dean. You more than anyone know the type of vengeance Meg can wreak.” Dean’s face tightens and he nods, tugs Castiel by the ragged sleeve out of the room. They run, out and to the Impala, as she taunts in yells, promising she’ll see her unicorn again, and  _this_  time he won’t escape.

Castiel frowns, as Dean babbles frantically at him about Sam and Crowley’s whereabouts, perturbed.

Why would Meg say such a thing? Unicorns don’t exist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Constantly fine-tuning AR S9 where Meg follows Abaddon and she and Castiel get closure…]


End file.
